Shit, my wife likes rusty nails. Rusty nails got me through August. I have a hierarchy. I'll order a rusty nail to see if they know what it is. Then I'll order a Manhattan to see if they know what it is. Then I'll ask them what bourbons they have. Then I'll ask them what American whiskeys they have that aren't Jack Daniels. This way, I set my expectations properly for the evening ahead. It's truly depressing how often I get to (4), especially considering that in LA, they still charge you $10 a shot for Jim Beam once they figure out that it's whiskey. This has a lot to do with why I never go out in LA.
Trust me. I share your frustration. In an ideal universe, your bartender can list his scotches by highland, lowland, islay and speyside. In our universe, he knows that Jack, Hennessy and Bacardi are all brown. Try asking "what pilsners do you have?" if you want to get a blank look - even in hoighty-toighty beer bars. They've got ninety-seven IPAs, forty-four hefeweizens, a lambic, a couple wheats and Heineken. Fuck you. You're drinking Heineken. The problem is that bars have been Sysco'd - you find the eight profitable items that you can blend into three "cocktails" that no one else has ever thought of, you feature them prominently on a standup on the bar, and your "mixologist" (how I hate that word) makes those three things all night, while the wall'o'booze behind him mostly serves to add atmosphere. The guy in front of the booze? He almost never touches it. He grabs the guns and whatever farkle is necessary to make a Mammer Jammer Mohitoes or whatthefuckever. He can tell you chapter and verse what goes in that thing. He can make them with his eyes closed. But knowing that Jack Daniels isn't bourbon is not a useful skill to him.